


Bedfellows

by Sauronix



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Late Gladnis Week Entry, M/M, Mild Angst, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Starring Dave's Old Pickup Truck, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World of Ruin, handjobs, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 02:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15985976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: Gladio groans, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. This is gonna be hell. Sharing a tiny room in a shithole motel with three other guys is bad enough, but a double bed just ain’t gonna cut it, not when he’s almost too big for the queen he’s got back home. No way are he and Ignis fitting on this thing without someone getting elbowed in the ribs, or kneed in the balls……or spooned.Ignis sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the bedspread. Even though his face is carefully schooled, giving nothing away—as always—he’s probably thinking the same thing.Awkward.Gladio and Ignis never expected they'd have to share a bed during their travels.





	Bedfellows

**[Year Zero: Longwythe]**  
  


“Well, I concede that it’s better than a caravan,” Ignis says, wrinkling his nose as he gingerly pokes the faded, flowered cover on the motel bed. “But only a half step up, mind you.”  
  
With an elated whoop, Prompto launches himself onto the other bed, where Noct is already lying with his nose buried in his phone. “Calling dibs on sharing with Noct! You up for some King’s Knight, buddy?”  
  
Noct doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yeah, sure.”  
  
Gladio groans, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. This is gonna be hell. Sharing a tiny room in a shithole motel with three other guys is bad enough, but a double bed just ain’t gonna cut it, not when he’s almost too big for the queen he’s got back home. No way are he and Ignis fitting on this thing without someone getting elbowed in the ribs, or kneed in the balls…  
  
…or spooned.  
  
Ignis sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the bedspread. Even though his face is carefully schooled, giving nothing away—as always—he’s probably thinking the same thing.  
  
_Awkward._  
  
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Gladio says, maybe a little too loud. He waves a hand vaguely at the bed. “Pick a side, Iggy. Doesn’t make a difference to me where I sleep.”  
  
Ignis nods, placing his phone on the nightstand between the beds. Gladio grabs his duffel bag, hauls it into the tiny bathroom, and jams the door shut behind him, shouldering it twice before the latch finally catches. The light above the sink casts a murky glow over the cracked countertop and scummy bathtub. Two raggedy towels—one pink, the other a faded blue—are folded on the rack over the toilet. It ain’t exactly filthy, but he still feels like he might pick up a disease or two in here if he isn’t careful.  
  
He shucks off his clothes and spends a little longer in the shower than he normally does, letting his muscles loosen under the scalding spray as he lathers his hair and gives his pits a good scrub. When he’s done, he towels off, brushes his teeth, and digs a clean pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt out of his duffel. On any other night, he’d sleep without the shirt, especially in this heat, but there’s no point in making this situation more uncomfortable than it has to be, and he damn well expects the same courtesy from Ignis.  
  
With a sigh, he runs a hand through his damp hair and steps back out into the room. Prompto and Noct are in their own bed, both quietly playing on their phones, and Ignis is in the other, propped up against two pillows as he writes in his notebook. He glances up as Gladio approaches, peering at him over his glasses.  
  
“Shower’s all yours,” Gladio says. He pulls back the covers on the empty side of the bed, revealing the flannel pyjama pants Ignis is wearing. _Small mercies._  
  
“Thank you, but I showered this morning.” Ignis closes his notebook and sets it on the nightstand next to his phone, glancing over at Noct and Prompto. “We have an early start. Perhaps you two should think about turning in soon.”  
  
“We will!” Prompto says. “After this round.”  
  
Nodding, Ignis reaches over and pulls the chain on the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the glow from Noct and Prompto’s phones. Gladio shakes his head and climbs into the bed, gingerly perching himself on the edge of the mattress with his back to Ignis. He can feel the heat of Ignis’s body next to him, warming the sheets. It’s weird and unfamiliar—can’t be otherwise, when he’s used to sleeping alone—but it ain’t exactly unpleasant.  
  
He lies there quietly for a few minutes, his pulse roaring in his ears, hyper-aware of every tiny movement Ignis makes under the sheets. This is ridiculous. He’s known Ignis for as long as he can remember, and among all the people in this room, he’s probably the best person to share a bed with—he’s considerate, polite to a fault, and guards his personal space just as much as Gladio does. He probably won’t wake up with Ignis sprawled half on top of him, and he doesn’t get the impression Ignis is the type to hog the blankets. Gladio takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, willing his body to relax. And little by little, it does, even though he’s still wide awake, his brain a little too agitated to let him drift off.  
  
Eventually, Noct and Prompto put away their phones and settle down in their own bed. Within minutes, Noct is snoring softly, and Prompto’s breathing has gone deep and even. But there’s only silence from Ignis.  
  
“You awake?” Gladio finally murmurs.  
  
The sheets shift behind him. “Yes.”  
  
“Think that hunt we’re taking tomorrow will pay enough to get us to Galdin Quay?” he asks.  
  
Ignis sighs, barely perceptible. “No, but it will certainly help.”  
  
“There are some tougher hunts. We could take one of those.”  
  
“And get ourselves killed? I think not. We’ll have to accept a few of the easier ones and make the money that way.”  
   
Gladio nods, pressing his cheek into the lumpy pillow. “Yeah, guess you’re right.” He’s silent for a moment, listening to Noct snore as he gazes at the lines of silver moonlight shining through the broken slats of their blinds. “Would you believe my dad gave me a platinum card from the Royal Bank of Insomnia when we left? Said I could use it to book rooms at nice hotels along the way.” He laughs softly. “So much for that.”  
  
“There is a certain irony to it,” Ignis says lightly. “Though I must admit, I am rather surprised neither the king, nor your father, nor my uncle were aware cards aren’t accepted outside the Wall.”  
  
Gladio snorts. “Or that they use a totally different currency?”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“Guess we’re stuck with this kind of arrangement ’til we get back from Altissia, huh?”  
  
“It certainly does seem that way.”  
  
“I’ll try not to drool or fart on you in my sleep or whatever.”  
  
“Much appreciated.” There’s a pause, and the sheets shift again. “In retrospect, your decision to pack the tent and sleeping bags was a stroke of genius. I daresay we’ll be camping more than we ever expected.”  
  
That doesn’t sound so bad. At least the sleeping bags will give them the illusion of personal space, even if they’re flimsy barriers. Better than feeling Ignis laid out next to him, the warmth of his body so comforting, it’s almost scary. It’s starting to lull him to sleep. Starting to make Gladio think it might not be so bad to wake up beside him, enveloped in that cozy warmth.  
  
“Night, Iggy,” he says, shoving that thought into some inaccessible corner of his mind. “See you in the morning.”  
  
There’s no answer, and for a second, Gladio thinks Ignis might’ve fallen asleep already. But then he murmurs, his voice soft with encroaching sleep, “Goodnight, Gladio.”

  
**[Year One: Niflheim Territory]**  
  


Gladio wakes in the middle of the night to someone shaking him. Still half-dreaming, it takes him a few seconds to remember where he is—in the compartment he’s sharing with Ignis on the train bound for Gralea. His bunk rocks gently with the motion of the train, and he can hear the wheels clattering on the tracks as they cut through moonlit countryside.  
  
“Gladio?” Ignis’s voice, whispered from the narrow space between their bunks. “Are you awake?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gladio says groggily. He rubs his eyes and props himself up on his elbow, trying to make out Ignis’s face in the darkness. “What’s up? Everything all right?”  
  
“I have to use the lavatory.”  
  
Gladio grunts in acknowledgement, already casting around for his shirt. This ain’t the first time Ignis has gotten him up in the middle of the night to be escorted to the can. Being blind hasn’t just thrown his sleep schedule off the rails—it’s made _everything_ a thousand times harder, including something as basic as taking a piss. Ignis could probably find his way to the bathroom from memory by now, but it’s better safe than sorry. He’s already got enough stress without having to worry about barging into another passenger’s compartment by accident.  
  
“I apologize,” Ignis murmurs.  
  
“Don’t sweat it, Iggy.”  
  
For his part, Gladio’s just happy Ignis isn’t too proud or pissed off at him to ask for help when he needs it. The man’s about as stubborn as a garula, and after their argument at Cartanica today, he figured Ignis would be doing everything in his power to prove he’s still capable.  
  
When he finds his shirt, Gladio pulls it on and gets out of bed, placing a hand on the small of Ignis’s back to guide him to the door. The hallway is quiet, the lights dimmed, and Gladio keeps his hand on Ignis as he follows him down the corridor. Ignis feels along the wall, his steps hesitant, though they’re more confident than they were in the days after he was blinded.  
  
They reach the bathroom, and Gladio tugs gently on Ignis’s shirt to get him to stop. He pulls the latch on the door and it slides open with a whoosh.  
  
“Do you need help?” Gladio asks.  
  
Ignis shakes his head. “No. I’ll be all right. You’ll wait out here for me…?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll be just down the hall.”  
  
Ignis nods and feels his way into the bathroom, and Gladio closes the door behind him. Then he walks a few paces down the corridor, just enough to give Ignis a little bit of privacy. Lately, Gladio’s been helping him with so many things—shaving, bathing, dressing, hairstyling, eating, walking, reading, shopping—that he tries to preserve Ignis’s dignity as much as he can.  
  
That, and he feels guilty about having to help Ignis at all. If he’d gotten to the altar a little sooner—if he’d been a little faster, a little smarter—maybe he could’ve stopped this from happening. Gladio still gets a lump in his throat when he thinks about the way Ignis cried when he realized he would never see again. He wanted to cry himself, feeling like the most useless fucking asshole on Eos. Couldn’t save Luna. Couldn’t help Ignis. Couldn’t do anything to change the past.  
  
_Some Shield._  
  
Down the hall, the toilet flushes. A moment later, the bathroom door hisses open, and Ignis’s hand appears, gripping the doorframe. Gladio goes to him, and together, they make their way back to their lodgings.  
  
Once they’re in their compartment, Ignis sits on the edge of his bunk, toeing off his shoes, while Gladio climbs into his own. He’s about to pull the blankets over himself again when Ignis’s voice stops him.  
  
“May I ask another favour?” he says.  
  
“Depends on the favour.”  
  
Ignis swallows so hard, Gladio can see his Adam’s apple bob in the moonlight. “Would you…would it be all right if I slept next to you?”  
  
“What, you mean in my bunk?”  
  
Ignis nods. “Yes.”  
  
Gladio hesitates. It ain’t that he’s opposed to sleeping next to Ignis. They got comfortable with that a long time ago, after all the beds they’ve shared and camping they’ve done together since leaving Insomnia. It’s just that… “I dunno if we’ll both fit in here, Iggy.”  
  
“Of course. I apologize for asking.” Ignis lifts his feet onto his bunk and tucks them under the blanket. “Goodnight, Gladio.”  
  
He turns over to face the wall, curling in on himself. He looks so goddamn small and vulnerable—nothing like the Ignis who stood his ground at Fodina Caestino earlier today, who figured out all on his own how to take down the malboro that came at them out of the swamp—and it hits Gladio suddenly that maybe the world is a scarier, lonelier place now that Ignis can’t see. All Gladio’s gotta do to reassure himself he ain’t alone is glance over at Ignis in the other bunk, but Ignis can’t do the same. He’s got nothing but darkness, and without the sound of Gladio’s voice or a hand on his back, maybe he feels unmoored.  
  
And maybe he’s too proud to let anyone but Gladio know it.  
  
Sighing, Gladio kicks off his blanket and climbs into Ignis’s bunk, bending his legs to fit on the mattress next to him, so close they’re practically cuddled up with each other. It’s not exactly awkward, but it’s not comfortable, either. Despite all the beds they’ve shared, they’ve never had this much physical contact before. He’s never woken up with Ignis tucked in his lap, the heat of his skin searing Gladio even through his t-shirt, as welcome as it is strange. He isn’t sure what the hell to do with his arms, so he folds one under his head and lays the other like a barrier between them.  
  
“Gladio?” Ignis says questioningly.  
  
Gladio grunts. “Sorry. Bit of a tight squeeze.”  
  
“You don’t have to—”  
  
“It’s all right, Iggy,” Gladio says. He adjusts his head on the pillow and closes his eyes, breathing in the faint, clean smell of Ignis’s hair. “It’s not so bad.”  
  
Ignis hesitates for a moment before nodding, though he doesn’t say anything else. Gladio listens to him breathing, conscious of the way his ribs expand with every even inhalation. It’s a reminder that at least Ignis is still here. At least he didn’t die on that altar like Luna. Inexplicably, he’s overwhelmed with the urge to put an arm around Ignis and hold him close, protect him from the world, maybe never let him go, but he quashes that feeling before he can act on it.  
  
He’s drifting off when Ignis speaks again, jolting him awake.  
  
“Thank you,” he murmurs.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For remaining by my side,” Ignis says, “even though you’d rather I had stayed behind in Cartanica.”  
  
_Oh_.  
  
Between ripping Noct a new asshole and insisting the three of them carry on without Ignis, he ain’t proud of most of the things he said today. Even though he meant all of it, the words came out wrong. He just wanted Noct to come to his senses, and for Ignis to recognize the dangers of wading into battle without his eyes. As much as Gladio wants to protect all of them, he can only do so much, and he would never forgive himself if something happened to Ignis while he was busy defending Noct. It would be easier if Ignis stayed in Cartanica, where Gladio wouldn’t have to worry about his safety.  
  
In theory, anyway. The thought of leaving Ignis behind stings just as much as the thought of losing him forever.  
  
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says.  
  
Ignis chuckles darkly. “It’s rather late for that.”  
  
“You know what I mean.” Gladio stares at the freckled nape of his neck, at how soft and delicate it looks with the chain of his necklace laid across it. He licks his lips. “I don’t want you to get yourself killed.”  
  
“I have a duty, Gladio.”  
  
Gladio clenches his jaw. “I know.”  
  
“If that duty entails dying in Noct’s service, well, I made peace with that long ago.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean I wanna watch you throw yourself on the blade.”  
  
Ignis doesn’t say anything to that. Gladio sighs, tipping his head forward to rest on Ignis’s shoulder. He didn’t mean it to sound so harsh. It’s just that Ignis ain't the one who’s supposed to be laying down his life for Noct.  
  
“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says finally, his voice muffled by Ignis’s t-shirt.  
  
“You can’t promise that.”  
  
“Yeah, I can. Who’s gonna tell Noct to eat his vegetables if you’re not in the picture?”  
  
Ignis laughs softly. “That’s a fair point.”  
  
They lapse into silence. Before long, Ignis’s breathing goes deep and even, his body relaxing into Gladio’s, jostled lightly by the motion of the train. But Gladio doesn’t sleep. His legs and back are sore, his arm going numb where it’s tucked under his head, the space between them growing unbearably hot with their shared body heat. No matter how uncomfortable it gets, though, Gladio won’t leave.  
  
When Ignis wakes up, this is right where Gladio’s gonna be.

  
**[Year Three: Lestallum]**  
  


“Come on, Iggy, stay with me,” Gladio growls. He steers the truck with one hand, the other holding his blood-soaked shirt to the raw gouges slashed across Ignis’s chest, putting pressure on the wound. “We’re almost there.”  
  
Ignis’s head lolls in the seat next to him. Gladio’s not sure he’s even conscious, and he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the road to check. If they hit a pothole or go into the ditch, they’re fucked. More fucked than they already are. No one’s coming to help them if they get stranded out here in the darkness.  
  
The hunt was supposed to be easy. A bunch of imps five miles east of Lestallum were blocking the road, terrorizing supply trucks and refugees coming from the Cauthess region. Monica needed someone to take them out. Gladio needed some quick cash. It was a done deal.  
  
And then Ignis asked to come along.  
  
Despite his reservations, Gladio agreed. Or, more to the point, he didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Ignis had been training hard, working himself to the bone to get back in fighting shape, often pushing himself past the point of exhaustion to prove his mettle. Who was Gladio to say he wasn’t good enough? That would be a jerk move, and a lie. Besides, he figured Ignis could handle a few imps, especially if Gladio was there to watch his back. It should’ve been a no-brainer for a blind guy taking baby steps back into the hunting game.  
  
But recon got it wrong. Along with the imps, a gang of hobgoblins came lumbering out of the darkness, grunting and slobbering and swinging their fists. It was an unexpected complication. Hell, a _dangerous_ complication. They didn’t even get the chance to turn back. Still, Ignis held his own in the fray, alternately striking like a viper and darting away from danger—until it all suddenly went to shit. In the heat of things, while Gladio was busy fending off two of the fuckers at once, he lost sight of Ignis in the swarm. It was only for a few seconds, but that was all it took for an imp to do its worst, tearing three long, deep gouges across Ignis’s collarbone and down his chest.    
  
Everything after that was a blur. Gladio doesn’t remember much besides Ignis screaming. A desperate fumble for potions that weren’t strong enough to stop the bleeding. Ripping off his shirt and jamming it into the wound. Carrying a half-conscious Ignis back to the truck, hoping against hope the daemons weren’t right on their asses.  
  
(As luck would have it, they weren’t.)  
  
There’s a field infirmary on the outskirts of Lestallum. That’s where they’re headed now—if Ignis can hold on long enough to get there. Gladio grits his teeth and floors the gas, trying not to think about the stickiness of Ignis’s blood congealing between his fingers.  
  
Some of the fear lifts from Gladio’s heart when the lights of Lestallum appear in the distance. As soon as he’s past the barricade, he slams on the brakes, bringing the truck to a squealing halt. He hops out of the driver’s seat, darts around to the passenger side, and wrenches the door open, pulling Ignis’s limp form down into his arms.  
  
“I need a medic!” he bellows, willing Ignis to hold on a little bit longer as he staggers toward the med tent.  
  
The medics don’t let him stay. They carry Ignis inside, and Gladio spends the next hour pacing outside the tent, wiping Ignis’s blood off his forearms with a dirty rag some passing hunter gave him, his stomach in knots as he prays to whichever Astrals will listen that Ignis makes it. Gladio almost lost him once. He swore he’d never let it happen again.  
  
So much for that.  
  
Finally, the head medic steps out of the tent, wiping her hands off on a towel.  
  
“You can see him now,” she says. “He’s going to be all right.”  
  
He thanks her and pushes his way into the tent. It’s dimly lit by lanterns. The stink of rot and antiseptic lingers in the air, making him wrinkle his nose. Rows of bedrolls line the ground, some of them occupied by wounded hunters. One has his entire head wrapped in gauze, while another is missing an arm, and a third keeps moaning lowly in pain even though she has no obvious injuries. Most are empty, though, which makes it easy to spot Ignis, tucked away at the back of the tent.  
  
Gladio makes his way over there and kneels on the bedroll beside him. Ignis is shirtless, his chest mottled with bruises, but the worst of his wounds are covered by thick bandages. His eyes are closed, his visor folded on the pillow next to him. He looks so damn young and vulnerable.  
  
“Iggy. Hey,” he says, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”  
  
“Gladio,” Ignis says, his voice thick with fatigue. He opens his eyes and turns his head, his gaze landing in the middle of Gladio’s chest. “Yes, I think so. Rather tired, though.”  
  
“You scared the shit out of me.” Belatedly, he realizes his thumb is stroking Ignis’s shoulder, and he takes his hand away as if he’s been scalded. “I thought you were…” He swallows and gives himself a shake, shutting down the mental image of Ignis being ripped open and devoured by daemons. “Well, you know.”  
  
“I’ve caused quite a lot of trouble today, haven’t I?”  
  
“It’s all right, Iggy.” It ain’t all right, but Gladio’s not about to make Ignis feel worse than he already does, and there’s no point arguing about something they’ve been over a hundred times before. Still, he has to say something. “Are you gonna stop?”  
  
“You should know better than to ask that by now,” Ignis says lightly.  
  
Typical. Leave it to Ignis to be so, well… _Ignis_ , even when he’s doped up on potions and painkillers. Gladio can’t help laughing.  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He stretches out on the bedroll next to Ignis, facing him with his head propped up in one hand. He has no plans to leave Ignis’s side tonight, so he might as well get comfortable. “You think you’re some kinda action hero or something?”  
  
“Hardly.”  
  
“Uh huh. Sure. You remind me of the main character from _Justice Force_. What was his name again?”  
  
Ignis furrows his brow. “Wasn’t it something ridiculous like Magnus Optimus Maximus?”  
  
Gladio laughs again. “Yeah, sounds about right. Remember that scene in the third movie where he drives a motorcycle loaded with dynamite and gasoline through the window into the bad guys’ headquarters? That was nuts.” The memory crystallizes in Gladio’s mind, drawing a grin across his face. Back then, it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.  
  
Ignis smiles drowsily. “It does ring a bell.”  
  
“He was a total badass, Iggy. Just like you.”  
  
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Ignis says, though he’s still smiling. “Didn’t we sneak out of tutoring to see that one afternoon?”  
  
“Yeah, we did.” They were fifteen and sixteen at the time. He asked Ignis to go with him on a whim, never expecting him to accept, never _imagining_ Ignis would be caught dead at an action flick. “I dunno why you agreed to go with me, Iggy. You always had a stick up your ass about your studies.”  
  
Ignis closes his eyes and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You were…very persuasive,” he says softly.  
  
“Yeah, right. You were totally into it. You spent twenty minutes dissecting the scene where the girlfriend gets beheaded by a buzzsaw.”  
  
“It was absurd.”  
  
“I think the amount of popcorn we ate was more absurd.”  
  
Ignis groans. “Don’t remind me. I had a terrible stomachache. I thought I was going to be sick.”  
  
“I was sick.” And then his dad lectured him for an hour about the evils of skipping class and shirking his duty to "indulge in frivolities." That was almost worse than the barfing. “Didn’t really appreciate the laps Cor made us run the next day, either.”  
  
“We did deserve it.” Ignis laughs weakly, then winces, one hand rising to rest over his bandaged chest. “Those were different days.”  
  
Yeah. Different days is right. If only they’d known how good they had it. Gladio would do anything to bring those days back—to see Noct on the throne, and Prompto and Iris and Ignis safe again. But that world is long gone. All he can do is protect them as best he can, and hope there’s a future for them that’s half as bright as the lives they left behind.  
  
“Gladio…”  
  
Ignis places his hand on the bedroll between them, palm up, like an offering. Gladio looks at it, at the soft, pale skin of his palm, and his mouth goes dry. It’s the first time since that night on the train that Ignis has asked for more than a guiding touch. This ain’t about needing Gladio to help him shave, or button his shirt the right way, or show him the way to the bathroom. This time, it’s just Gladio he wants, full stop.    
  
Gladio’s more than willing to give what little comfort he can. He takes Ignis’s hand and folds it in his own like a precious thing. “Yeah, Iggy?”  
  
“Will you stay until I fall asleep?”  
  
It ain’t even a question. Gladio wouldn’t leave him. Not like this. Not after tonight. Not after all the times he’s fucked up at keeping Ignis safe. He tucks their clasped hands against his chest and settles down on the bedroll, curling up closer to Ignis.  
  
“Yeah, Iggy,” he says. “I will.”

  
**[Year Five: Galdin Quay]**

  
“You sure they’re here, Gladdy?” Iris asks doubtfully. “The place isn’t looking too lively.”  
  
They’re standing on a bluff overlooking Galdin Quay. The valley below is dark, except for a couple of massive spotlights that shine down on the beach and resort, illuminating the waves that crash on the sand. There used to be a sizeable platoon of glaives manning the place, but in the five years since the Starscourge took over, so many have fallen to the daemons, or worse, been corrupted by the scourge themselves. Now, there’s only a small rotating faction here to keep an eye on Angelgard.  
  
Gladio glances down at his phone, triple-checking the message Ignis sent him this morning. _We’ll be spending the night at Galdin Quay, if you’d like to join us. There’s more than enough room._  
  
“Pretty sure,” he responds, though he shoots Ignis a text just in case: _We’re here. Where are you?_  
  
They start to pick their way down to the beach, their footsteps light in the dead grass. Gladio keeps one eye peeled for daemons and the other on Iris. She’s twenty now, corded with thick muscle, and marked by more scars than he can count, but she’s still his kid sister. Wanting to protect her is an instinct, one he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shake, no matter how many times she bails his ass out on a hunt.  
  
His phone pings as the grass gives way to sand. _We’re in the hotel. Master Suite_.  
  
They make their way down the dilapidated boardwalk, stepping around holes where the planks have rotted away, letting the surf foam up from below. Pretty soon, there won’t be much left of this place. It’s a wonder the ocean hasn’t swept it all away. With the dwindling numbers of glaives, less manpower and fewer resources are being spared for upkeep, and hunters don’t have much reason to come here unless they’re desperate for somewhere safe to sleep.    
  
Two glaives are playing cards at the counter in what used to be the restaurant. Gladio gives them a nod as he and Iris pass by, and one of them returns the greeting with a raised hand, but he doesn’t see anyone else—the rest of the resort is eerily empty. The ceiling in the hotel corridor is water-stained, the carpet peeling up from the floor. Most of the numbers on the doors are faded, some missing altogether, but Gladio takes a guess that the Master Suite is the one at the end of the hallway. When they reach it, he knocks on the door, and Talcott opens it only a few seconds later.  
  
“Gladio!” he exclaims, his face lighting up. He opens the door wider. “Iris! You guys made it!”  
  
“You bet we did, kiddo.” Iris ruffles his hair before pulling him into a one-armed hug, the muscle of her bicep bulging. “Man, you’re getting big!”  
  
Gladio drops his rucksack and kicks off his mud-caked boots just inside the door, giving the suite   a once-over. A few flickering candles are the only source of light. Despite years of neglect, it ain’t looking too bad. There’s a bit of dust on some of the tables and a rust stain creeping down the wall in the kitchenette. A flap of paint is peeling off the ceiling, but the roof is intact, at least, and the couches in the living space look clean. The coffee table is piled high with thick, leather-bound books—Ignis’s research, most likely.  
  
Speaking of Ignis, he rises from a faded armchair near the window. He’s not wearing his visor, and his hair is damp, slicked back off his face, like he just got back from a wade in the ocean. Seeing him after months apart fills Gladio with a giddy kind of warmth. “You made it. I was starting to worry,” he says.  
  
“We got held up by a red giant about a half mile from here,” Gladio says.  
  
“Gladdy kicked its ass,” Iris chimes in.  
  
Gladio rubs the back of his neck. “Only because you helped.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re both unscathed,” Ignis says. He steps around the back of the couch like he’s done it a hundred times before, making his way confidently toward the kitchenette. No matter how many times he’s seen Ignis move like that, Gladio still can’t believe how goddamn graceful he is. “Would you like a cup of tea? Talcott found some sachets of nutmeg and ginger in the back of the cupboard.”  
  
“No, thanks, Iggy,” Iris says. She flops down on one of the couches with a pained groan. “I’m beat. I just wanna go to sleep.”  
  
Ignis nods, then inclines his head in Gladio’s direction. “And you?”  
  
“I’m with Iris,” Gladio says, ‘cause he’s aching right down to his bones, his muscles begging for rest after walking and hunting and walking some more. “Wouldn’t mind a bath, though. We got running water here?”  
  
“I’m afraid not,” Ignis says. “The glaives drew some water from the well earlier. You can give yourself a sponge bath, if you’d like.”  
  
Gladio tries not to be disappointed. He hasn’t had a real bath in the month since he left Lestallum, and even then, it was a quick scrub while sharing a hose with five other guys. In the intervening weeks, he’s had to make do with the occasional splash in a stream, or rubbing himself down with dirt and scraping it off with the back of a knife. He knows he stinks—pretty much everyone does these days—but he’s already embarrassed at the thought of Ignis catching a whiff of him.  
  
“There’s an ensuite off the bedroom,” Ignis says. “I left a bowl of water on the counter and a cloth drying over the side of the bathtub. You can use those.” He pauses, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, before adding: “If you’d like, we can share the bed tonight. It’s a king. More than enough room for the both of us.”  
  
Gladio’s stomach does a little flip as he thinks about falling asleep next to Ignis. “Yeah, I don’t mind. But what about those two?”  
  
“Oh, I imagine they’ll be quite all right out here.”  
  
As if to punctuate his point, there’s a snore from the other side of the room. Gladio glances over and finds Iris already out like a light on the sofa, curled up with her rucksack tucked under her head. On the couch next to her, Talcott’s in the same state, only he’s got a real pillow and a blanket. The years have hardened them, but to Gladio, they’re still just a couple of kids. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over his sister, bending to kiss her head before following Ignis to the bedroom.  
  
There’s a single candle lit on the nightstand, illuminating the bed, though in this case, Gladio doesn’t mind the darkness. The bedding probably hasn’t had a proper laundering in years, and in all that time, how many people have slept and bled and fucked between those sheets? Now it’s his turn to lay his head down here. Even though he’s no cleaner than anyone else who’s used these lodgings, he ain’t exactly thrilled about lying in other people’s filth.  
  
Though being here with Ignis makes it a little more bearable. Gladio watches as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed, and his stomach does another flip. It ain’t nerves, exactly—it’s more of an anticipation. Sleeping next to Ignis has started to feel like home, and it’s been a long time since he’s had that comfort. Honestly, he’s been craving it. He’s had butterflies in his stomach ever since Ignis sent him that text this morning.  
  
“The bathroom is all yours,” Ignis says, amused, like he can sense Gladio staring at him.  
  
“Uh, right,” Gladio says, giving himself a shake. “Thanks.”  
  
In the bathroom, by the glow of his flashlight, he wipes himself down with the cloth Ignis left for him, taking extra care under his arms and between his legs. By the time he’s done, the cloth is nearly black, and the water in the small bowl is cloudy with dirt. He can still smell himself, but there’s not a hell of a lot he can do about that. He used the last of his cologne and deodorant a long time ago.      
  
When Gladio emerges, Ignis is already under the sheets, facing the empty side of the bed. Gladio climbs in next to him. The covers reek like stale sweat, so Gladio keeps them pooled around his waist, where they’re less likely to offend his nose, and tucks his arm under his head as he rolls over to face Ignis. Somehow, in spite of the hellhole their world has become, Ignis looks better than ever. The scar on his eye has faded. His skin is soft in the candlelight, shadows accentuating the line of his jaw and the curve of his full lips. Gladio’s gaze lingers there longer than it should. They’re lying close enough to kiss.  
  
He clears his throat. “It’s been a while,” he says.  
  
“A few months,” Ignis agrees.  
  
Gladio wants to say _I’ve missed you_ , but he bites his tongue. That ain’t the kind of thing he’s brave enough to say to Ignis. “Been keeping yourself busy?”  
  
“Fairly. After we last parted ways, I spent a few weeks cooking at the refugee centre in Old Lestallum,” Ignis says. “Since then, Talcott has been helping me research a network of ruins in Leide.”  
  
“Yeah? What are you hoping to find?”  
  
“I…I’m not sure yet,” Ignis murmurs, closing his eye, and Gladio gets the sense there’s something Ignis isn’t telling him. It’s there in the way his forehead furrows, like he’s trying to decide if it’ll be worth his while to share what he knows. He’s seen Ignis do it a hundred times before—with Noct, with the king, with their enemies. “But I feel like I’m running out of time.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Gladio asks. “I know the world’s real shitty right now, Iggy, but we’ve been getting along okay so far. We’re gonna make it.”  
  
“That’s not what I…” Ignis turns his face into his pillow, expelling a frustrated sigh. “It’s nothing. Nothing you need to worry yourself about, at any rate.”  
  
“But it’s worrying you.” Gladio shifts a little closer, tilting his head toward Ignis. “You can talk to me, Iggy. You know that, right?”  
  
“You have enough to worry about as it is,” Ignis says.  
  
“But—”  
  
Ignis stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Gladio, please. I have placed my life in your hands more times than I can count. All I ask is that you trust me in this. For once, let me protect you.”  
  
As much as he wants answers, Gladio can’t ignore that kind of plea if it’s Ignis asking. “Okay, Iggy. Okay. I trust you,” he says reluctantly.  
  
Ignis nods, squeezing Gladio’s shoulder before he draws his hand away. Gladio nearly catches it and puts it back where it was, longing to hold on to that warmth just as much as he wants answers. He wishes Ignis would tell him what’s on his mind, wishes Ignis would let him in. _For once, let me protect you_. What the hell is that supposed to mean? What, exactly, is Ignis trying to protect him from?  
  
He won’t push the issue, though, even if it ends up eating away at him. Whatever it is, Ignis will tell him someday, when he’s good and ready.  
  
“What about you, Gladio?” Ignis murmurs. “Is the hunter life everything you hoped for?”  
  
Gladio chuckles darkly. The reality is nothing like he imagined it would be, back when the constraints of his duty chafed the most. Fighting for his life is nothing new. But sleeping under the stars ain’t so relaxing when he has to listen to daemons lurking around his campsite all night. It isn’t liberating to wander Lucis like a nomad when he doesn’t have a place he can call home. He’s scared all the time—for himself, for the people he loves, for a future that’s looking bleaker by the day. The price everyone’s paying for all this freedom ain’t worth it.  
  
“It’s not so bad,” he finally says, not wanting to burden Ignis with the truth, “but that’s mostly ‘cause I’m sick of sleeping in smelly bedrolls with a bunch of strangers every goddamn night.”  
  
Ignis smiles. “In that case, I’m sorry to subject you to more of the same. I would have washed the sheets, but, well…”  
  
“You’re not a stranger, Iggy.”  
  
“I do have an advantage in that respect.” His smile turns mischievous. “The smell, however…I’m afraid there’s little I can do about that.”  
  
Gladio inhales through his nose, breathing in Ignis’s scent. There’s sweat and oil, but there’s also ocean salt and the faint sweetness of anise, like Ignis has been chewing on herbs to mask his breath. Far from off-putting, it’s familiar and comforting, even arousing. It’s the real, human Ignis that’s always been lost behind a veil of cologne and shampoo. Gladio wants to surround himself with it, to bury his face in Ignis’s neck and find out if he tastes as good as he smells. He’s wanted it for so long, he doesn’t even question it anymore.  
  
“Trust me, this is a hell of a lot better than some of the hunter camps I’ve stayed at lately. You smell like a bouquet of roses in comparison,” Gladio says. “Sorry you have to share with me, though. Bet I could knock out a garulessa.”  
  
Ignis laughs. “I rather like it, to be honest. It reminds me that you’re near.”  
  
Gladio’s heart does a little somersault. Deep down, he’s always known Ignis likes having him around, but it’s nice to hear it once in a while. He snuggles a little closer to him, until they’re not quite touching, but sharing each other’s air.  
  
“Yeah, I’m here, Iggy,” he murmurs. “And I ain’t going anywhere.”

  
**[Year Seven: Hammerhead]**

  
They leave Hammerhead a little after midnight, the three of them squeezed into the backseat of Dave’s pickup truck.  
  
Gladio gets in first, sliding all the way across the bench to take the passenger side window. He helps Ignis in after him, hands clasped, and Ignis braces himself on Gladio’s knee for balance as he finds his seat. The touch sends a shiver of desire through Gladio, which lingers after Ignis takes his hand away with a murmured apology. Prompto takes up the rear, slamming the door closed behind them. The engine sputters, then roars to life. Dave pulls out of the service station and onto the deserted highway, gunning it past a cluster of galvanades glowing eerily in the darkness just beyond the lights of Hammerhead.  
  
Resting his head against the window, Gladio heaves an exhausted sigh. His entire goddamn body hurts. They just spent seven hours fighting their way into the heart of the Three Valleys for a handful of meteorshards, and then another four getting out again, and he’s ready for a nap. They could’ve stayed in Hammerhead for the night, but with all the hunters coming and going these days, the caravan’s starting to look a little grody. The sheets haven’t been changed in months, and he’s half tempted to bring Sania around to take a sample of the fungus that’s growing on the shower wall.  
  
“Think those meteorshards will be enough to get the lights at Meldacio up and running again?” Prompto murmurs.  
  
“They should be,” Ignis responds. He shifts on the seat, and Gladio’s suddenly all-too-aware of how little space there is between them, their thighs and arms pressed together. He also can’t help noticing that Ignis doesn’t move away, even though there’s a bit of space on the seat between him and Prompto. “I fear to imagine what’s become of the hunters there.”  
  
“They have their flashlights, and the headlights on their cars,” Gladio says wearily, raking a hand through his dirt-encrusted hair. “They’re probably fine.”  
  
Prompto nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. Not that Gladio blames him. He ain’t convinced, either. Holding on to hope in this shithole of a world is easier said than done. He doesn’t wanna think about a bunch of dead hunters in Meldacio, because they could just as easily find themselves in the same situation someday. What if the lights of Lestallum or Hammerhead went down? Then they’d really be fucked. He pats the pouch of meteorshards in his pocket, reassuring himself they’re still there. Beside him, Ignis stifles a yawn in his fist.  
  
“If you boys wanna sleep, you go right on ahead,” Dave says, pushing the dial on the truck’s stereo to turn it on, and squealing guitars burst from the speakers. “I’ve got an old Electric Cockatrice cassette to keep me company.”  
  
That’s fine by Gladio. He doesn’t really wanna talk, anyway. He can already feel sleep beckoning, his fatigue tugging him under. Gladio places his head on the window again, watching the darkened scenery rush by. There’s nothing to distinguish sky from mountain from desert, nothing but a void of blackness that smothers life. Nothing but dead landscape, rotten with withered forests and ghost towns and the corpses of animals long extinct. In the distance, he sees an otherworldly flare of daemonic miasma, a manifestation of the disease killing their world, and he thinks the thing he’s never let himself acknowledge before—it ain’t just his body that’s tired. It’s his soul.  
  
They’ve been living in this hell for seven goddamn years, and there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. With every month that passes, a little more of his faith that Noct will return gets worn away. No one’s coming to save them. Hell, they can barely keep their heads above water as it is. Every day, there’s news of more outposts overtaken by daemons, more transports abandoned on the side of the road, more hunters injured or dead or worse.  
  
In his darkest moments, he thinks it might be easier to lie down and die. He’s had just about enough of this endless struggle. Endless scraping for survival. Endless fear for the people he loves. Endless hoping for a sunrise that might never come. What the fuck are they fighting for?  
  
Something touches his shoulder, and he looks down to find Ignis’s head resting there, his body leaning heavily against Gladio. He’s fast asleep. The despair that’s been clenching Gladio’s heart loosens its grip, replaced instead by an aching fondness. Ignis’s hair stinks of grease and tallow soap, but Gladio presses his face into it, breathing the smell of humanity, of life, of _Ignis_. The heat of Ignis’s body leaning against his own makes the world a little more bearable, reminds him there’s something worth waking up for every morning.  
  
After everything he’s been through, Ignis has never lost hope. He just keeps on pushing forward, teaching himself how to fight and cook and live again, always finding the silver lining in a shitty situation. And as long as Ignis keeps going, Gladio will be right there by his side.  
  
He rests his cheek on Ignis’s head, and closes his eyes, and surrenders himself to sleep.

  
**[Year Nine: Ravatogh]**

  
They take a hunt together at Ravatogh.  
  
Gladio drives them out from Lestallum in Dave’s old pickup truck, with their rucksacks, tent, and camping gear piled up in the bed. They don’t talk much on the way there. Ignis seems lost in his own thoughts, and Gladio’s so preoccupied with the logistics of the hunt, it doesn’t occur to him to ask.  
  
They stop at a haven in the foothills, planning to make their climb to the summit after a meal and a few hours of sleep. While Gladio pitches the tent, Ignis gets the fire going with a bit of magic from a flask. He cooks vesproom and trevally kebabs over the flame, and they make small talk as they eat, sitting cross-legged next to each other in the firelight, their knees touching. Something about it feels deliberate. Gladio doesn’t move his leg away, and neither does Ignis. They sit like that until Ignis starts to shiver, and Gladio sees a hint of his own breath in the air.  
  
After that, there’s nothing left to do but turn in for the night. Leaving the fire to burn itself out, they retreat into the tent.  
  
While Ignis strips off his outer clothes, Gladio starts to unroll their sleeping bags, hesitating before he lays them down. Without Noct and Prompto, they have plenty of space to spread out. But the thing is, Gladio doesn’t wanna. Why put their sleeping bags apart when he could fall asleep next to Ignis?  
  
Besides, it’s cold. Body heat and all that.  
  
“Hey, Iggy,” he says, licking his lips, his pulse rising. “How’d you feel about zipping these together?”  
  
Ignis pauses in the middle of shrugging out of his shirt. It’s just a blip, a split-second hesitation, short enough that Gladio would’ve missed it if he blinked. But then Ignis tugs his wrist out of one sleeve, then the other, and lets the shirt drop to the ground. “I can’t say I’d mind it,” he says, his voice perfectly level. “The extra warmth would certainly be welcome.”  
  
Gladio nods, more to himself than anything, and starts unzipping the bags. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ignis stepping out of his pants, leaving him in his threadbare boxer briefs and a dark undershirt. Gladio tries not to look—tries to give Ignis a bit of privacy, even though Ignis doesn’t seem to care one way or the other—but he can’t help sneaking a glance. In the light of their meteorshard-powered lantern, Ignis’s arms and legs are so pale they look translucent, his veins faintly visible under the skin. And he’s lean—leaner than he’s ever been, but there’s no mistaking the strength in his body. It’s there in the curve of his biceps, in the muscles that ripple in his thighs as he squats to fold his discarded clothing.  
  
The sight of it makes Gladio’s pulse roar in his ears, so he turns his attention back to zipping the sleeping bags together and laying them out on the floor.  
  
“All right,” Gladio says, once he’s done, “hop in.”  
  
“Thank you,” Ignis murmurs.  
  
As Ignis gets into the sleeping bags, Gladio trades his hunting clothes for a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. They aren’t exactly clean, but at least they’re not covered in dirt, sweat, and daemon gunk, like his fatigues. Then he turns their lantern down to the lowest setting and climbs in next to Ignis. The heat of his body has already started to warm the cocoon of their sleeping bags, and Gladio sighs in contentment as he settles down. There’s a tension humming through him, but it ain’t from anxiety—at least not the kind of anxiety he felt the first time they ever shared a bed.  
  
They’re quiet for a while. Gladio listens to Ignis breathing, letting the sound of it slowly lull him into a doze. Tomorrow, they’ll climb Ravatogh and get the meteorshards Monica said were hidden up there, and then they’ll climb back down and spend another night here. Maybe he’ll finally find the courage to tell Ignis how he feels before they have to part ways again, this time for months…  
  
“Gladio?”  
  
He grunts, blinking awake. “Yeah?”  
  
The sleeping bag beside him rustles, like Ignis is turning over to face him. “How long has it been since Gralea?”  
  
Gladio counts backward in his head. “About nine years, I guess.”  
  
“Nine years,” Ignis murmurs. He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “Sometimes it feels like longer.”  
  
Gladio snorts. “More like ninety.”  
  
They lapse into silence again. Gladio laces his fingers over his belly, listening to Ignis breathing beside him. Their arms are touching now, just lightly at the elbows, but it’s enough to make Gladio’s skin feel tight, like it’s too small to contain his desire.  
  
“Think Noct’ll ever come back?” he finally whispers. He’s tried not to doubt, but after nine years, it’s hard not to feel hopeless. Noct’s been gone so long, and he can’t count the number of hunter friends he’s had to bury. Sometimes he wonders if it’ll be Iris, Prompto, or Ignis next.  
  
“Yes,” Ignis says, his voice firm and confident. “I know he will.”  
  
Gladio smiles. Ignis’s unwavering belief in Noct makes the world seem a little less bleak. Always has. “Is there anything he could do to shake your faith in him, Iggy?”  
  
“I don’t imagine so.” The sleeping bag around him moves, and this time when Ignis speaks, Gladio can feel the heat of his breath on his ear. He must’ve rolled onto his side to face Gladio. “And I’ve always felt the same way about you.”  
  
“Iggy…”  
  
“There’s no one I trust more.”  
  
“That so?” Gladio turns his head toward Ignis, and their noses brush together. A shiver races down Gladio’s spine, gets his heart pattering all over again. It would be so easy to lean in and claim a kiss. “‘Cause I dunno if I deserve your trust, Iggy. Not after Altissia, anyway.”  
  
“What more do you think you could have done?” Ignis murmurs. “I made my choices, Gladio, and I certainly never expected you to take the blame for them.”  
  
“I dunno. I guess I…” Gladio blows out a breath, remembering Ignis lying on that altar in the rain, his burnt-up face twisted in agony. Thinking about it still stings. “I can’t stand seeing you get hurt.”  
  
Between them, Ignis’s hand touches his chest, and Gladio nearly leaps out of his skin, heat blooming between his legs. Nimble fingers trace over Gladio’s shirt, finding and following the thick ridge of scar tissue he took as a souvenir from his fight with Gilgamesh. Shit. Can Ignis feel his heart pounding?  
  
“I’ve often felt the same about you,” Ignis says.  
  
His fingers trail up Gladio’s throat and cheek, feather-light, until they meet the ancient scar that cuts down his face. Every muscle in Gladio’s body is tense, every molecule in his being screaming for more of Ignis’s touch. The smell of him is intoxicating, a blend of musky sweat and tallow soap and smoke from their campfire. He can feel Ignis’s breath on his lips, can feel Ignis’s thumb tracing his cheek, gentle and affectionate.  
  
They’ve crossed a line here. There’s no more denying it.  
  
“Iggy,” Gladio says, pained, urgent, lightly touching Ignis’s hip.  
  
Ignis crushes their mouths together, his hand sliding around to take Gladio by the nape of the neck, clutching at him like he’s a life raft in a churning ocean—and just like that, the tension gripping Gladio’s body releases. Fucking _finally_. He lets out a relieved moan, his hand sliding up Ignis’s back restlessly, feeling sturdy bone and hard curves of muscle, then down again, his fingers digging into the meat of Ignis’s ass. He squeezes, and one of Ignis’s legs hooks around Gladio, his hips rolling to meet Gladio’s crotch.  
  
“Fuck, Iggy,” he breathes, his mouth swollen from the force of their kiss. He can feel Ignis’s cock pressing into his thigh. “You sure about this?”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure,” Ignis murmurs, warm hands slipping under Gladio’s t-shirt. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”  
  
Gladio sits up, unzips one side of the sleeping bag, and tosses it open, freeing them from its confines. With the way Ignis has him all worked up, the tent ain’t feeling so cold anymore. He lifts his arms so Ignis can take off his shirt, and then they’re kissing again, fervently. Hungry fingers trail down his chest and belly, finding a nipple and tweaking it along the way. Gladio grunts into Ignis’s mouth, pushing him onto his back, his dick throbbing in his pants. His body’s on fire, consuming him with need. He’s gotta have Ignis _now_.  
  
He slips his palms between Ignis’s shirt and skin, impatiently pushing the fabric up as he goes. Ignis breaks the kiss just long enough for Gladio to tug it over his head and toss it to a corner of the tent, and then there’s nothing left between them but their underwear and shared body heat. Ignis grinds against him again, his erection dragging over Gladio’s thigh.  
  
Gladio presses a tender kiss to the side of Ignis’s throat, his fingers trailing down Ignis’s toned chest and belly until they find the bulge in his underwear. Ignis sucks in a gasp, which turns into a moan when Gladio brushes the pad of his thumb over the wet spot. The sound of it makes Gladio’s dick twitch. He can’t count how many nights he’s spent lying next to Ignis, listening to his even breathing, and longing to do this very thing. It kind of feels surreal, having Ignis under him, having Ignis _wanting_ him.  
  
“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop?” he murmurs.  
  
Ignis strokes his cheek. “I don’t want you to stop.”  
  
“All right.” Gladio licks his dry lips, stomach fluttering, and hooks his fingers into the band of Ignis’s underwear. “Lift your ass for me.”  
  
Ignis does as he’s asked, and Gladio works the underwear down his hips, revealing sandy hair and a cut, delicately veined cock. It’s so hard it’s standing up, a bead of precome dribbling down the side. Gladio strokes upward, gathering the fluid in his palm, and watches as Ignis’s mouth drops open in a soft moan of pleasure. He’s so goddamn gorgeous. Gladio wants to slide his lips over the flushed head and taste him, but neither of them have had a real bath in months, and Ignis would probably make a stink about proper hygiene if he tried it.  
  
So instead, Gladio works him slowly, running the ball of his thumb over the frenulum, and watches Ignis tremble with need, his eyes greedily eating up every inch of Ignis’s skin he can see. Memorizing every freckle, every mole, every golden dusting of hair, every scar that scores his flesh. He never would have guessed there were so many. Some are small, faded. Others are fresh and discoloured, like the jagged claw marks on his chest that never healed quite right. Gladio kisses that scar reverently, remembering how Ignis never let fear or danger hold him back, even when Gladio begged him to lay down his weapons. Sometimes his courage was so bright, Gladio thought it might burn him up.    
  
“Kiss me,” Ignis says breathlessly, running his fingers through Gladio’s hair, gripping the nape of his neck to tug him closer, “please.”  
  
Gladio does, their tongues meeting as he shifts to straddle Ignis’s thighs. Ignis’s mouth devours his own, tongue demanding, his palm running up and down Gladio’s back. He gives Ignis’s cock two long, slow pumps before he picks up the pace, breaking the kiss to look down at him. From this vantage point, he can see all of Ignis, can see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his abs bunch as he breathes. He can see the sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat, the beads of it trickling down his chest.  
  
Fuck, he’ll get to see what Ignis looks like when he comes.  
  
Somehow, Ignis gets his hand in Gladio’s sweatpants. It curls around his cock and starts to stroke, the motions jerky and erratic, hindered by Gladio’s clothes and the narrow space between their bodies, but it’s ecstasy to his touch-starved nerves. He lets out a helpless groan, a hot shudder of pleasure rushing through him. He leans back, thrusting into Ignis’s fist, his ass cheeks clenching and unclenching, releasing Ignis for a couple of seconds to shove his own pants down around his thighs.  
  
Then it’s just the scorching pleasure of Ignis’s hand on him, and the wet, obscene slicking of them jerking each other off. Right now, the world outside this tent doesn’t exist. Fuck the daemons. Fuck the darkness. The only thing that matters is his hunger for Ignis, and Ignis wanting him in return. Gladio can feel his orgasm creeping up on him, coiling tight in his cock, cresting faster than he would have liked. But there’s no stopping it now. He’s kept his feelings for Ignis bottled up all these years, and the lid ain’t staying on ‘em anymore.  
  
Ignis comes first, his body stiffening under Gladio as he shoots onto his abs with a harsh expulsion of breath. Gladio somehow keeps the presence of mind to stroke him through it, even while he’s mesmerized by the abandon on Ignis’s face, the way his brows knit together and his mouth falls open in a broken moan. It’s hot as hell. Gladio bends down to kiss him, his own orgasm sweeping him away as their lips meet. He moans into Ignis’s mouth, rocking into Ignis’s fist, his body twitching as Ignis wrings the last of it out of him.  
  
When he opens his eyes, all he can see is both their spend glistening on Ignis’s skin. Ten years ago, that probably would’ve been enough to get him hard again, but now, he just wants to put an arm around Ignis and fall asleep curled up together. They’re both breathing hard, both slicked with sweat. Gladio kicks his underwear off and uses it to wipe up the mess on Ignis’s belly.  
  
Ignis finds his face and draws him in for another kiss, this one chaste, languid, lingering. Gladio closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together.  
  
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs.  
  
“Oh, I think I have an idea,” Ignis says, his voice amused. “I’ve probably wanted to do it for longer.”  
  
Gladio snorts as he settles his head on Ignis’s chest, tugging the flap of the sleeping bag back over them. “Wanna bet?”  
  
“Certainly.” Ignis puts an arm around him, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. “What would you like to wager?”  
  
“Dunno. Got nothin’ worth giving.” Gladio can feel sleep starting to tug at him, helped by the rise and fall of Ignis’s chest under his cheek and the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. “Except another handjob, I guess.”  
  
Ignis chuckles, a soothing rumble, his thumb stroking Gladio’s shoulder. “Well, I can hardly turn down an offer like that, can I?” he murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as one thing and exploded into something else entirely. Not sure about the end result, but here we are. This was originally supposed to be written for Gladnis Week, but due to IRL stuff going on, it's super late.
> 
> A million thanks to AtropaAzraelle for digging me out of many ruts during the process of writing this story. She literally carried me over the finish line and was unfailingly positive during my lowest moments. You're amazing, my friend. I could not have completed this story without you. <3 
> 
> I also want to give a shoutout to AccursedSpatula for supporting me and being a sounding board throughout the writing process. You're also amazing. <3
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, kudos and/or comments are very much appreciated.


End file.
